


Le fantôme

by Mums_the_Word



Series: Did I Ever Tell You? [6]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, struggling nouveau artist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8042635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: A very intense multi-agency investigation leads Peter into Neal’s world, both past and present. Not unexpectedly, the poor man easily becomes lost, and finds that he needs a roadmap to navigate the unfamiliar environment.





	Le fantôme

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the "Dream Team" of Treon and Kanarek13 who provided the screen cap. Very talented people!

 

 

      Early one Monday morning, several steely-eyed, dour-faced men in somber suits made their way past Neal’s desk on their pilgrimage to the upstairs conference room. Peter was pulled into the impromptu meeting, as was Hughes, and Neal was savvy enough to intuit that something really over-the-top “big” was unfolding. Later, when Peter filled Neal in, his CI found out that his assumptions were indeed correct. Mozzie, if he had been present, would have broken out in hives because that little coffee klatch turned out to be an intimidating conclave of government spooks of the highest order.

     Yes, indeed! Representatives of Homeland Security and the CIA had graced the 21st floor of the Federal Building, and were advocating a liaison with the FBI to stop a potential threat and prevent a national atrocity. A CIA mole in deep cover had alerted the top brass of a plot to assassinate an unknown government official on American soil. The person believed to be orchestrating the terror attack was Yosef Abdi, a well-known international troublemaker in the world of espionage.

     Abdi had been born in the Mideast to a wealthy Saudi father and mother who sent their exceptionally intelligent son to school in England where he earned an education in architecture. Along the way, he was exposed to Islamic dissidents espousing their rhetoric and became radicalized. Upon reaching adulthood, Abdi embraced a violent hatred of the West. In the ensuing years following graduation from Oxford, he had also managed to become a millionaire many times over by taking on the construction of a multitude of significant edifices in Dubai.

     However, this particular terrorist was a ghost. Few people had ever seen him face to face after he became an adult, and he never allowed his picture to be taken. It was thought that he had numerous passports in different names that he used to slide across international borders with ease. The tiny pictures on those documents were really quite generic. Most times the small, postage stamp-sized photo depicted a heavily bearded face wearing thick lens-distorting glasses. He could have been quite easily mistaken for Grizzly Adams, the mountain man, or Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber.

     Nevertheless, this indistinguishable person was whispered to be behind several attacks on US embassies abroad, as well as funding homegrown zealots right here in the States. Abdi had become more than a person of interest to those who were trying to track him; he was someone that government watchdogs wanted to detain and grill with a vengeance.

     Most troubling, however, was the latest intel. The spy agency’s clandestine source had alerted them to murmurs that Abdi was already within US borders—actually right here in New York. Homeland Security was aware of some of Abdi’s suspected aliases, but none had popped up on their radar. If the rumblings were true, it was crunch time—get to the madman before he managed to wreak any more havoc.

     The CIA had diligently done their homework, putting together a rather spotty mosaic of what was rumored to be the man’s likes, dislikes, favorite haunts, and habits when here in the city. Apparently, he favored gourmet food and wine, the Philharmonic at Lincoln Center, and was a discriminating collector of fine art. Thus, the White Collar division had been invited to the party. They were to keep their ear to the ground for any reports of high-end sales of artwork within the five boroughs.

     Later that day, Peter had all the information available to them tacked up on a white board in the conference room as he briefed his team. Neal sat between Diana and Jones, perusing the many pages, but suddenly those keen blue eyes widened abruptly, and he stiffened slightly after silently reading the list of known aliases. Peter always seemed to have clairvoyance when it came to Neal and his practically non-existent tells that others would have missed. When Neal didn’t offer anything, Peter’s Spidey senses ratcheted up into the red zone.

     After the scanty information-sharing session ended, Peter hooked a thumb at his partner and barked, “Neal, my office. Now!”

     “What did you twig onto, Neal? I know that you saw something in there, so I need to know what that was. This situation is about as serious as it gets, so no holding back!”

     “Not here, Peter. Let’s go out for coffee, and then we can talk,” Neal suggested.

     Peter had never known Neal to exhibit paranoia of the Mozzie variety, so the agent was forewarned that this was something that he needed to hear as soon as possible.

     Neal chose an open-terraced coffee shop six blocks from the Federal building. After he had brought the two cups of java to the table, he focused his attention on his mentor.

     “Peter, one of those Abdi aliases was the name Tarik Kasim,” Neal explained. “That hit me like a blast from the past because I had business dealings with him years ago.”

     Peter was flabbergasted. “Neal, you were actually hobnobbing with a terrorist? My God! Even I can’t protect you or shield you from that kind of fallout.”

     “It wasn’t like that, Peter. I swear!” Neal protested.

     Peter was scowling and breathing deeply trying to keep his temper in check, and Neal knew that he had to defuse this volatile situation sooner rather than later. He certainly did not want to find himself at the mercy of those Federal Dobermans who had visited earlier.

     “Peter, did I ever tell you about the brief interval in my life when I was known as ‘ _Le_ _fantôme,’_ a talented aspiring nouveau artist?”

     Peter glared. “Absolutely not, Neal! I would certainly have remembered that little sobriquet.”

    “It was when I first came to New York as an innocent and naïve transplant from the Midwest,” Neal began, but immediately halted when Peter snorted at that description.

     Neal narrowed his eyes at his handler, but continued with the narrative.

     “I was totally unprepared for how expensive everything was in the city, so, in order to keep a roof over my head and some food on the table, I took any jobs that I could. Envision me as a bartender or a bike messenger to get the total picture.”

     Peter was happy to oblige. “I can see you juggling cocktail olives, Neal. However, it is beyond my imagination’s frame of reference to wrap my head around your skinny butt in spandex!”

     Neal was now the one glaring. “Do you want to hear this story or not, Peter? If you do, stop with the judgmental mocking!”

     Peter held up his hands in surrender. “Please continue with your fable, Aesop.”

     Neal was temporarily mollified. “In my spare time, I started to dabble in alternative expressions of creative artwork. I’d do a mixed medium piece, a hardscape kinetic mobile, or even a sculpture or two. It was just something to pass the hours in the evenings when I wasn’t working.”

     Peter, obnoxious as usual, broke into the story. “Are you telling me that at one time you actually produced Neal Caffrey originals rather than Monet or Salvador Dali knockoffs?”

     “If you want to get technical,” Neal explained, “they were _Le_ _fantôme’s_ original works, which is the alter-ego signature that eventually went on them. Now, stop interrupting, Peter!

     Eventually, I met up with Mozzie, and things were a bit better financially, but still really tight because I hadn’t yet obtained a position with Vincent Adler. Finally, Moz was the one who suggested that maybe there was a market for the art stuff that was cluttering up my apartment. Mozzie knew a guy who knew a guy, and he finagled a showing of three pieces of my work in a Chelsea gallery. Moz also insisted that a fickle public needed to be tantalized with a mysterious backstory to separate this intrepid ingénue from the masses. Thurs, _Le_ _fantôme_ was born.

     Le fantôme was indeed a phantom. No one had ever met him or knew what he looked like, much like our current terrorist friend. Some rumors depicted the rogue artist as a bizarre but brilliantly talented lunatic, while others suspected he was a philosophically tortured soul who belonged in another era in history. Mozzie was the face-man for the operation, and acted as intermediary. He furtively whispered to a select few, who were sure to pass on the tales, that Le fantôme could only create when divinely inspired, and then only in groups of three. That number, for whatever reason, was sacred to him. Therefore, it was a very limited and exclusive market, and it was anyone’s guess if more work would be forthcoming in the future.

     The speculation abounded, and art patrons were intrigued. Social climbers trying to scale the heights of the upper crust wanted to be the first to behold and own the work of this elusive genius, and they crowded the gallery in Chelsea. Moz and I had put a substantial price tag on the pieces, but one afternoon, a gentleman walked into the showroom and offered Mozzie $25,000 over the asking prices for all three works. A wire transfer was arranged, and the new owner had them picked up that night.

     We never got a name, but you know Mozzie. He was paranoid and wanted to know exactly with whom we were dealing. He worked the wire transfer angle, and eventually came up with a corporation. Tarik Kasim, supposedly a Turkish national, was the head of that corporation—the very same name that was displayed on your whiteboard.

     Now fast-forward one year. Vincent Adler’s Ponzi scheme had imploded, and I was on the breadline again. Only this time, it wasn’t just me who was hungry. Now Kate was in my life, and I needed to take care of her, too. So, Moz and I resurrected Le fantôme. The Chelsea gallery was only too happy to display his latest triad. There was a lot of ink in the Arts and Entertainment section of the newspaper dedicated to the resurgence of the reclusive genius. This time, Moz and I put an even heftier price tag on the stuff, and, just as before, the tall, swarthy Kasim swanned into the opening and offered $100,000 over the sticker price. Of course, Moz took him up on the offer.”

     Neal had finished his story as well as his coffee and was looking at Peter, just waiting for the tirade that was sure to come. He wasn’t disappointed.

     “So,” Peter began slowly, “you and Mozzie managed to amass quite a little windfall from what you probably considered a legitimate enterprise. Did you ever pay income taxes on those earnings, Neal?”

     “Well, noooo,” Neal drawled. “You see, unfortunately, Le fantôme was lacking a social security number at the time.”

     Peter didn’t answer, but instead responded with that nitpicking stare that Neal really hated.

     “Oh, come on, Peter! The statute of limitations on those transactions is so old it probably has grandchildren at this point. You need to look at the big picture, Partner. We may be able to lure this terrorist into an FBI net if Le fantôme arises like the phoenix from the ashes and produces once again. The spooks are pretty sure that Abdi is currently in New York. I can whip up some creations in a day or two, and Mozzie can renew his relationship with the Chelsea galley owner and get us a showing. In the past, Abdi has always appeared in person to view the works, so maybe he will again. At least it’s worth a try.”

     Peter was thoughtful. “Can Mozzie remember what Kasim/Abdi looked like?”

     “Moz has an eidetic memory, Peter. His mind is a vault from which nothing escapes. I could work up a sketch for you.”

~~~~~~~~~

     Neal made good on his promise to pick Mozzie’s brain for facial details, and the FBI had their first true glimpse of the terror threat. The rendering showed a clean-shaven, clear-eyed man with a high forehead and a slightly prominent Roman nose. The CIA used their advanced software to age the portrait by a decade and added variations with and without facial hair. Neal also set to work on Le fantôme’s new creations. The Chelsea gallery owner was approached about adding another new exhibit, and was quite obliging—after all, her commission was riding on a very profitable pending sale. There was a very extravagant buildup in the press, and that Saturday the turnout in the small space was huge, with barely enough room to move.

     With the preponderance of Versace and Hermes on display, these visitors definitely were not your average art aficionados. The assembly constituted a plethora of well-heeled patrons of the arts who inhabited multimillion-dollar residences on 5th Avenue and other esteemed addresses around the world. Apparently, Neal’s mysterious and elusive reputation drew them like moths to the flame, and they were more than anxious to shell out big bucks to own the latest edition of “Le fantôme’s” work.

     Mozzie looked quite dashing in a vintage tux that had probably attended a high school prom or two in its day. With a bright red carnation in his white jacket’s lapel, he diligently worked the room, gadding about from person to person, bestowing air kisses with aplomb.

     Of course, there was a respectable Federal presence in attendance as well. Every third person decked out in a beaded gown or a slick tuxedo belonged to an agency denoted by an acronym. Jones and Diana were a couple and hovered near Peter, who had brought Neal as his date. That pairing was quite an interesting concept to contemplate, and actually made Jones snicker. However, Neal had insisted on being present. He claimed that no one knew that he was Le fantôme, and during the previous two openings he had never gotten to hear, up close and personal, what people had said about his work.

     Now let us actually discuss Neal’s work, shall we. As expected, there were just three pieces—a kinetic piece, a collage, and a sculpture of sorts. The mobile consisted of wires, each holding a small suspended odd-shaped piece of metal. Peter wondered if Neal had scavenged them from June’s garage.

     The collage was a mixture of canvas with the occasional piece of burlap adhered to the surface. Small splashes of black paint, some globs actually dripping down the surface, were the only adornments to an otherwise brown-hued background. Peter had no idea what that was all about.

     The sculpture was a fair-sized rectangle of marble. One side remained untouched, while chisel marks delineated an emerging “something” on the opposite side. Peter went out on a limb and hypothesized that perhaps it was meant to be part of a face, with just a sliver of a brow line and nose, and half of a mouth in evidence. At a loss to understand, and definitely out of his comfort zone, the confused FBI agent read the small engraved card amidst the trio of artwork.

**_“Le fantôme”_ **

**** **_This elusive artist’s latest work, finally produced so many years after his first foray into creative expression, appears more mature, while his conceptualization is somewhat darker in nature. The quiescent volatile energy is far from inert, and the overall synergy reflects a fragmented rawness through tactile resonances. A truly soul-searching manifestation of primal angst, and an exquisite masterpiece of self-examination_.**

     “Well, now I know as much as I knew before, and that’s exactly nothing,” Peter muttered to Neal. “What is all this supposed to represent, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

     Neal sighed dramatically. “Peter, you are so left-brained! Art represents whatever you want it to be. You have to use your imagination and see the potential in the story that it is telling your inner self.”

     “Well said, young man,” said a haughty, well-coiffed matron holding a glass of champagne in her hand when she overheard the exchange. “Art should speak to you.”

     “Quite right, Madelyn,” agreed her escort. “Artistic expression is a very personal thing, and you have to immerse yourself in the experience.”

     Now other eavesdroppers chimed in with their “expert” opinions. One cultured, gray-haired gentleman of a certain age had to get his two-cents into the discussion.

     “To me, that kinetic sculpture represents all of those pieces of space junk above our heads—drones, satellites, and space labs circling like buzzards. Their intrusive probing eyes seek to invade our privacy, to know and document our every movement, and somewhere, in some agency, data is constantly being compiled in some enormous mainframe to be used against us when we least expect it.”

     Peter looked askance at the speaker and thought that perhaps this guy and Mozzie could share some quality time making tin foil hats!

     Another somewhat younger socialite sashayed over and opined on the merits of Neal’s collage.

     “That particular piece reminds me so much of Gustav Vigeland’s extraordinary sculpture in Oslo. This collage reflects a similar motif, just like the monolith that stands at the highest point in the Vigeland Sculpture Garden—a masterpiece over seventeen meters in height and fashioned from a single block of granite. There are over a hundred human figures carved into its surface, all trying to climb over one another upward. It represents man's longing and yearning for the spiritual and divine, perhaps a symbol of his ultimate resurrection. The people being drawn towards heaven are not only characterized by sadness and controlled despair, but also a hope of salvation. I see that dichotomy—that sense of struggle—in Le fantôme’s work as well. Some of the ebony manifestations are struggling to ascend, while others are tragically sliding down into oblivion.”

     “Well, damn,” Peter thought to himself. “I just see black dots and dripping paint.”  

     Not to be outdone, it was not long before another pretentious and fashionably well turned out couple clamored for the limelight so that they could pontificate about their wealth of knowledge and world travel.

     “This artist’s marble sculpture is so very much like Michelangelo’s surreal unfinished statues that we saw in Florence last year,” the conceited female enthused to the man by her side.

     “Quite so,” agreed her English-sounding mate. “As I recall, there were four in all, and some of the finest examples of Michelangelo’s habitual practice referred to as _non-finito,_ or incomplete. They were titled the ‘Prisoner’ sculptures because they were magnificent illustrations emblematic of the struggle of man to free his spirit from matter _._ Those captivating pieces, in various stages of completion, evoke the enormous strength of the creative concept as the suggestion of figures try to emerge from the bonds and physical weight of the marble. I see that here in this small sculpture, a trapped spirit striving to extricate itself from a primordial, marble womb.”

     Peter tried very hard not to cross his eyes, and was saved from that embarrassment when his phone vibrated briefly in his pocket. It was the signal that their Hail Mary play had paid off. Yosef Abdi was in the building, and now all the various agents were on alert. It was agreed that the terrorist would not be approached while in the gallery. They could take no chance of innocent bystanders being hurt, so they would watch and wait until the man left, and then take him down out on the street.  

      The dark-eyed mystery man was appropriately attired in what was probably hand-made, precisely tailored evening dress, and he made short work of following a serpentine route through the mass of champagne-drinking patrons to stand before the artwork in the center of the room. He studied each piece discerningly before briefly scanning the crowd until he spied Mozzie, whose white jacket made him a beacon among the conservative basic black of most guests. Abdi then gracefully sauntered over to the short, bald man and held out his hand. Mozzie played his role in true Clark Gable fashion, initially smiling benignly with a slightly puzzled look on his face until he seemed to recall the man in front of him.

     “My, my,” the bald man finally gushed, “if it isn’t Le fantôme’s very generous patron. It has been a few years, good sir, so please forgive my inexcusable lapse of memory when you first appeared.”

     Abdi smiled politely. “It is of no matter, my friend. You should know that even after all this time, I still have a thirst to attain more pieces from this very talented artist whom you represent. I had almost given up hope that he was still active.”

     The suspected terrorist then glanced about him dismissively as he continued. “I can certainly comprehend that a genius must crave his moment of glory—ergo, this grand presentation tonight. That is quite understandable, and like manna from heaven to a creative soul. However, let me make this very clear. Although others may look and covet this evening, please realize that his work needs be mine and mine alone.”

     While talking, the terrorist had removed his phone from the interior pocket of his tuxedo.

     “As you can see, I had faith during the dry interim. I have kept the routing number of Le fantôme’s banking account on my phone. It is still the same, I trust?”

     Mozzie myopically stared at the screen and saw the number 1 followed by six very fat zeros.

     “With a push of a button, we can conclude our business quite efficiently,” the wealthy man said with a slight smile on his face and raised eyebrows.

     “But of course,” Mozzie tried not to sputter.

     The terrorist was true to his word, and the wire transfer occurred without a hitch.

     “Now that my business here is concluded, I will take my leave,” Abdi said as he turned to go. “Someone will be picking up the art work tomorrow.”

     Mozzie was not prepared for the abruptness of it all, and straggled along beside the suddenly departing man, stammering inane comments about the champagne and the canapés until they reached the door. The little man really was not going to put himself in harm’s way by sticking one toe past the threshold. His night’s work was over. When the coast was clear, he decided the best course of action was to make himself scarce.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Abdi’s arrest was almost anticlimactic—over in the blink of an eye without anyone breaking a sweat. One of those “mum’s the word” agencies had then spirited him away for parts unknown. It was as if the tall, dark-complexioned man had simply ceased to exist, perhaps sucked from the earth by alien invaders before he could commit any assassination. Not one hint had been leaked to the press, so the public never became aware of the stymied potential threat.

     At the end of that very eventful night, Le fantôme’s art sold for an undisclosed amount that Peter strongly advised Neal to donate to the charity of his choice. That would end the con man’s little problem of having to explain Le fantôme to the Internal Revenue Service.

     Peter paid a surprise visit to Neal’s loft the following weekend, beer and wine in hand. As the two partners kicked back on the terrace, Peter enlightened his partner, quite nonchalantly, of a pertinent fact regarding the case.

     “You know, Neal, it was the strangest thing. When Abdi was searched, he didn’t seem to have a phone on him. The CIA was really hoping to recover lots of useful data about his contacts and any wire transfers of large sums of money. As you are no doubt aware, you can catch a lot of fish in your net when you follow the money trail.”

     “Yes, I suppose that you could,” Neal replied innocently.

     “And,” Peter continued softly, “I really thought that I saw a phone in his hand when he was talking to Mozzie. Actually, when I think back, Mozzie was the only person who walked beside Abdi until he went out the door. By the way, where is your short, exasperating cohort?”

     Neal’s just gave Peter that wide-eyed look and shrugged his shoulders.

     “You know Moz, Peter. He flits around here and there.”

     Peter smiled his Cheshire cat smile. “Per chance, did he flit away to some island in the Caribbean—the Caymans, perhaps, to attend to some personal banking?”

    “I don’t believe that he mentioned that, Peter, but I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually and you can ask,” Neal remarked solemnly before continuing.

     “But why are you worrying about the small stuff, Buddy. You should be reveling in the fact that it was the White Collar division of the FBI who took down a dangerous threat to the national security of our country. That’s really big, Peter, and you should be proud. Don’t forget, our team was the recipient of a letter of commendation from the President, himself, for a job well done.”

     Peter looked at the exasperating young man fondly, and a tacit vibe passed between them.

     “Yeah, Neal, I suppose that we all got something really _big_ out of this little caper, in one form or another!”

**Author's Note:**

> There is one more story that will round out this little whimsical series. I hope that you'll look for it next week.


End file.
